Gains
by eyesocketsandsuits
Summary: [[ xReaders ]] You turn your head to scream encouragement, but the call dies in your throat when you recognize Prussia. You grin, laughing at the sheer joy of the situation and his appearance. "What are you doing here?" You shout over the noise, stepping closer so that he could catch your words. "How could I miss this?" He asked, gesturing.
1. Gains ( x Prussia )

**Note: These were originally posted in the FF . net story "Flying Pieces of Paper." They have been moved to this new story in an organizational attempt.**

 **x Readers.**

* * *

The roar spread through the crowd like a wave. You screamed along with them, the people, _your_ people, who crowded around the government building. You felt elbows and jostles, and someone kept stepping on your heels, but you screamed along with them.

A ring of police surrounded the building, the space behind them looking too large and empty against the mass of bodies on the other side. You hoisted your picket sign and screamed the rallies of those beside you—

"Give us independence! Give– us– independence!"

Your people had been fighting for this, since the first currents of regional differences to the separation of interests between _your_ people and the government's people. And now, you were all so close. The government—and the personification—were breaking.

Someone touched your elbow, too soft to be accidental in the swirling mass of bodies. You turn your head to scream encouragement, but the call dies in your throat when you recognize Prussia. You grin, laughing at the sheer joy of the situation and his appearance.

"What are you _doing_ here?" You shout over the noise, stepping closer so that he could catch your words.

"How could I miss this?" He asked, gesturing.

And for a moment, you almost felt guilty. Prussia, who loitered around World Meetings, aiding countries with military advice, always offering to do your paperwork or clean or tell you the best way to get the government's attention.

But this was your nation, and you nod at his question, joining in as another chant for independence started up again. Prussia was at your side, screaming along, interlinking his arm with yours and pulling you through the crowd so you could see the governmental building.

You allow yourself to be led, excitement making your fingers tingle. Prussia was warm against the chill air, and you suddenly felt better than he was there. It was always him to help you edit proposals, wasn't it?

He would laugh at your suggestions, tease you, but then he would always have another idea, something that worked and made everything better.

And he stayed with you, until the guards knocked back the protesters and the sun began to dip below the horizon. The crowd began to filter away, and suddenly you and Prussia could stand side-by-side without being pressed together. And then the streetlights flickered on and you were the only two standing on the trampled grass in front of the building.

You were still breathless from the rally, hair wild, adrenaline still making your heart race. Prussia stood, hair shining underneath the city lights. He was gazing away, and you watched his profile for a minute.

Did he miss this? Having a people? The various scientists who studied the personifications seemed to argue that there was still a cultural divide that allowed Prussia to survive, but surviving wasn't the same as living.

Prussia sprawled on the trampled grass, and you took a seat beside him. Your gaze fell on the building and your felt yourself smiling.

"What is it?"

You looked over to Prussia, who had twisted his body so he could make eye contact. You laugh, start to say something, but end up laughing again. Prussia wiggles on the ground, and the ridiculousness of the situation gets you again.

"I think I'm actually going to gain independence," you finally manage, shaking your head. "I think my independence is actually going to be granted. Can you even imagine?"

Instead of a warm response, Prussia was silent for a moment. "It's not as easy as that, you know. I'm just saying!" He sat up, attempted to smile. "It's hard. It fun, and exciting, but God, is it hard."

You pick at the grass, wondering where your boundaries were in this conversation. "Do you… Are you ever… Sad about it?" You grimace. "What I mean is—"

Prussia scoffed, a playful glint to his eye. "What you mean is that you can't speak worth anything. Don't worry, I'll be there to help you through learning how to talk. Speeches. I write great. Practice every day."

"You write in your diary."

Prussia shrugged defensively. "Same thing!"

"It's really not."

The look that crossed his face was one of indignation but also, vaguely, of agreement. You laughed again, leaning so you touched shoulders. It had been a good day. Your laughter died off, and it was just the sound of night traffic.

You looked over and met Prussia's eyes. He immediately looked away, and you saw his jaw clench. You were good friends.

You were going to be a nation. You were going to have responsibilities, going to have to fight tooth and nail into other nations' politics and trade, going to form a new government and fight your own issues. Distractions, you thought absently, were probably not a good thing at this point in time.

But it was just Prussia, sitting next to you in the chilly air.

He looked back to try and salvage the situation, so you leaned and kissed him. His mouth opened in surprise against your own, and he seemed frozen until your hand found his. Then, it was gentle and cautious as your adrenaline wore off.

A nation was allowed distractions.


	2. Secretarial ( xRomano )

You were a secretary. You were given copious amount of paperwork, with too much blacked out that you couldn't ask anyone about. It was all very frustrating, and you ended more nights than one with ink all over your fingers, squinting in the dark at text you couldn't read.

And then there was your boss. He was confusing.

Everyone in the office called him Lovino, but depending on who breezed in, he was called Romano or, even, Italy. You kept your nose down, but you would watch as Lovino strode in, talking angrily on his phone.

More than once, his gaze met yours. His eyes would widen and then flick down, and he would mutter into his phone and dash past your desk. It was always interesting, watching your boss go about his boss business. But you would always meet eyes.

One day, he even talked to you.

You were gazing forlornly at pages of redacted paperwork when a tanned hand suddenly appeared in your peripheral vision. You look up to see Lovino, and you smile before you can even think to stop yourself.

"Sir?" You ask.

"Hello." He smiles at you, something so quick and fleeting, you weren't sure it was even there to begin with. "I'd like to leave a coffee order. Please. You pick up coffee in the morning, right?"

"Uh, yes."

Lovino leaves you with an order, something long and complicated that you would never remember. And even when you bring it to him in the morning, Lovino, trapped in his mess of an office, he doesn't yell.

"What is this, black?" he grumbles, but he gives you that flash of a smile, and you don't dread the morning coffee run anymore.

Yes, your boss was an interesting man. Sometimes, he would trudge in a nice suit, hat pulled low over his eyes, swaggering by. And then, he would roll in the next morning, holding a half empty pizza box, dressed in a pair of shorts and a pastel button-up.

He talked about you.

He must, when he walked by, muttering on his phone. Too quick for your Italian to pick up, but he must. He would walk up to your desk, tap it, then walk away, like he had left the stove on.

And then one day, he brings you a coffee. Sometime sweet and native to Italy, and you take a sip and watch him walk away. Then, that was the pattern. Lovino would stroll up, always talking on his phone, and leave a coffee like a peace offering.

He would come up, tap your desk, ask, "Did you like the coffee?"

And you would smile, blowing on the coffee that was almost too sugary.

Lovino would grumble when you brought him the coffee from the chain, mumble about his country selling out, always winking or giving you a knowing grin. It was equilibrium: something that was sustained by late nights and sticky notes with notes scrawled on them.

Lovino held back.

There were times when he would be gone for a week, strolling back in without so much as a glance in your direction. He looked so tired sometimes, like there were a hundred things that were waiting for him as soon as he walked out of the office. When he looked at you, it looked as though he was looking at another you, someone who had brought him more than coffee.

It scared you, sometimes.

And then—like nothing had happened.

It was a confusing dance, one you felt was over your head. Lovino, who was Romano, who was Italy, who was your boss.


	3. Cheap Vodka ( x Canada )

Alfred, in retrospect, is sort of a dick.

You think this as you lay on the couch, watching the ceiling fade in and out. Your head is light and your stomach is rolling and you have a grin plastered to your face. But still, your heart feels heavy.

Alfred is passed out nearby, the bottle stolen from your garage empty in his hand. For all his talk, he was a lightweight. And you had too many too fast, and now you were wondering if you were going to throw up.

It's the first time you see Matthew. You catch sight of him standing in the doorway, backpack over his shoulder, looking annoyed. He doesn't give you a passing glance and as walks over to Alfred.

"Alfred. _Alfred_."

His words are soft, and they make you feel a little better.

"You're his brother?" you manage, tongue too wide in your mouth. "He talked about you."

"Good things, I'm sure," he mutters, nudges Alfred with his foot. "Our father is going to be home, soon. He's going to be pissed Alfred's drunk." He looks at you, and you stare back, unsure of what to say or do, because what could this other brother possibly be thinking about you? "Need a ride?"

"I do," you slur, words too long. "Please."

He watches you get to your feet, and it's only when you stumbled over a game controller that Matthew takes your arm, grip warm and soft and firm. You smile at him, the rooms spinning, and you don't realize he's helping you outside until you feel the raindrops on your head.

"It's raining."

"Wow."

You laugh, covering your mouth with your hand, and you stumble across the yard with him.

"You have a really nice house," you say. "It has a nice—yard. Lots of grass. Lots of green."

Matthew's eyebrow twitches down, and he smiles. "My dad refuses to have anything less than a perfect lawn. In the spring, he's all over with fertilizer, and he and my father get into screaming matches over which color flowers to plant."

You're having trouble with all the _dads_ and _fathers_. Everything is gray or green, and you're thankful when you sink into a seat. It's not Alfred's car—too neat, no food wrappers. A little pine tree hangs from the review mirror, and you're fascinated by it until Matthew opens the door and sits next to you.

You watch his hands, and the gearshift seems impossible complicated, but he handles it with ease.

It's muggy in the car. The windows fog up. You tell him your address.

"How do you know Alfred?" Matthew asks.

"School. We have Algebra together." You click your tongue, wishing you had a glass of water or another drink. "He said you're not gonna' be home for a while."

"Hockey was canceled. I'm sure he also told you he was going to pay you for the vodka."

"He's not?"

Matthew shrugs. "He tells everyone that."

That was one of the only bottles of vodka left—someone would notice it was missing. But you needed some cash, and Alfred had promised to share the bottle, and now apparently you weren't getting _anything_. The anger creeps through your brain like a fog.

"He said he would!"

"He's kind of an asshole."

You point. "He _is_ an asshole! A _major_ asshole."

Matthew looks over. "You're crying," he says, and he sounds surprised and worried, and that just makes more tears roll down your cheeks.

"I am? I don't mean to be crying." You voice cracks, and you wipe away the tears and look down at them. "I don't get drunk very much."

"I've noticed." You watch his profile, and he meets your eyes again and smiles. "I'm sorry my brother drank half your vodka."

"'S okay," you mumble. "Thank you for driving me."

"No problem. I only have homework to look forward to, so." He shrugs again. "Besides, it's better than talking to a drunk Alfred. You're much nicer."

"I don't feel well."

Matthew looks over sharply. "Are you going to throw up?"

"No, I don't—"

You slap a hand over your mouth, and Matthew curses and signals. It makes your stomach lurch, and as soon as the car slows, you try to kick the door open, but you forget to take your seatbelt off. Matthew fumbles with your lock and you hang over the side of the car for a second before he finally gets it.

You flop onto the wet pavement.

After a few minutes, you become aware of Matthew crouching next to you and rubbing your back. You let out a miserable moan.

"You're getting wet," you hiccup, rubbing the tears out of your eyes.

"I have a hood." He flips up the hood of his sweatshirt, and you smile.

"You're a good person."

"Are you done?" he asks, and he helps you up and back into the car.

You sit there, rubbing your mouth off until Matthew hands you a wad of tissues. You thank him and wipe your face off, looking at the tissues when you're done until he takes them and tucks them away, somewhere.

"Alfred said you're a nerd."

"He's just in denial that he's also a huge nerd," Matthew reassures.

You pull up to your house, and Matthew helps you to the back door. You thank him and pat him on the shoulder and stumble inside, and you dream about pine trees and red hoodies and smiles and clean cars.


	4. Potatoes and Cheese ( x France )

**For girlofthearts on Tumblr.**

* * *

You open your eyes to a banana hammock.

"Good morning to you, as well," you say, rolling over and stretching.

"Good morning," Francis says brightly. "How was your sleep? I hope it was restful, because we have a long day ahead of us. It's not every day it's your birthday."

"Mhm. And to celebrate, your banana hammock?"

"My dearest, this is a _thong_." Francis turned around, and you saw he was indeed wearing a thong. "I would not deprive you of my glorious, ah…"

" _Derrière_ ," you suggest, raising an eyebrow.

"Indeed." Francis grins, hopping into bed with you.

"So, what's the plan for today? Something delightfully romantic, I'm hoping?" You smile.

Francis laughs. "Mm, indeed. Perhaps…" His hand slowly inched down your stomach, teasing the top of your underwear.

You lift your hips off the bed. Then dropped. "Oh, wow, what is that _amazing_ smell?"

"I was in the middle of being sexy—"

"I don't care, I want to put whatever that smell is into my mouth." You sit up, searching around for your sweatshirt.

Francis watched you, lip sticking out and eyes wide. "And if I said that this thong is scented…"

"I'd say you're lying." You shrug your sweatshirt on and hop out of bed. "Come on, serve me whatever that smell is."

Francis remains posed in bed, legs spread-eagle to show off his banana hammock-thong. You laugh and grab his legs, tugging him slowly, dragging him off the bed, along with the sheets and a few pillows. Francis remains posed, laying on the ground.

"Come on, banana hammock!"

Francis heaves a deep sigh and picks himself off the ground. He slinks toward the kitchen, but he ends up pinching at your ass, laughing as he chases you into the kitchen.

You sit at the counter, starving, watching Francis pull open the oven. The smell once again hit you, something cheesy.

" _Voila_!"

It was some sort of potato with egg and cheese and deliciousness. Francis served it carefully, sprinkling a careful ratio of salt and pepper. And bacon.

"How does it look?"

"Not as good as a banana hammock, but a close second as far as things being seen in the morning." You take a bite and your eyes flutter shut. "This is the best thing I've ever put in my mouth."

Francis raised an eyebrow. "I'll be sure to remember that."

You threw a napkin at him. "I'm going to punch you," you say, laughing. "Your dick can't match up to whatever you made here. But, still, it is a close second as far as things to taste in the morning."

"I'll certainly look forward to whenever that happens."

Francis smiles, bent over his plate. You're trying to eat the food as fast as you can without getting it all over yourself. It was awesome.

"You're very beautiful."

You look up and blink, swallow the food in your mouth. "Really? In my pajamas with bedhead shoveling food in my face?"

Francis shrugs. "You make it work, by bear."

You stick one leg in the air and pose, shoving another forkful of breakfast into your mouth. "Oh la la, it iz moi, ze French model."

Francis collects your plates and throws them in the sink, before turning back to you and smiling. "Now, where were we? Ah, yes…" He gathers you in his arms and leads you back to the bedroom. "I was being sexy."

He lays you on the bed and bites at your underwear with his teeth.

"The sexiest of panties," you say, "the large, comfy kind my grandma would wear."

"Well," Francis says, tugging them down, "it's what's underneath that is my favorite part."

You grin as Francis nips at your hipbone. He kisses along your thighs, nipping and sucking, working his way back up. You raise your hips, moaning impatiently.

Francis breathes on your clit. "Mm, you seemed much more eager to eat this morning, and now you're impatient at the pace?" He licks playfully at your clit. "My bear, you must make up your mind."

"Francis."

"My bear?"

"Please eat me out."

"With pleasure!"

His tongue finally made it. He licked slowly along the top of your clit, occasionally flicking down. You moaned every time he did so, bucking your hips. His hands came out to keep your hips on the bed.

Suddenly, his finger was in you, twisting up and around. You groan in relief the more sensation he gave, and his tongue finally started flicking around your clit.

He switched to sucking at your clit, sliding another finger in. One played at your G-spot while the other spun in lazy circles. You let out a little cry at the change of placement, trying to arch your hips, Francis keeping you down with his free hand.

"Mm, very beautiful."

"Ah." It's all you can get out.

He slows down suddenly, pulling his head away and smiling pleasantly at you. You buck your hips.

"This isn't very nice on my birthday."

Francis laughs, breath warm, before leaning back down. He keeps at it, licking and sucking, his fingers massaging and twisting.

You can feel warmth pool in your groin, at the back of your pelvis, your breath uneven and hectic.

"Ah—I'm gonna' come," you moan. "I'm gonna'—"

Francis hummed, speeding up.

You hold your breath, letting the pressure build, grabbing Francis' head, and then—

"I'm coming, ah, I'm coming, ah…"

Your clench around his fingers, warm pleasure radiating down your legs. You groan as you ride it out, moan, moan, moaning. Francis slows down, eyes locked on your face.

You collapse back on the bed, eyes fluttering shut. You sigh and stretch your legs, moaning again at how sensitive you still are. Francis crawls up to you, kissing your neck and wrapping his arms around you.

"Thank you."

Francis laughs. "Of course! You don't have to thank me. I hope it was a good birthday gift."

"Wait—you didn't get me a _gift_ gift?" You look at him.

Francis raises an eyebrow. "Greedy on your birthday, aren't you?"

You stared at one another. For a long, long minute. Until his face broke into a smile.

"I got you another gift."

You lean back. "Mhm."

Francis pulled you close. "Mhm, mhm, mhm." He stuck his nose into the crook of your shoulder. "I love you, my bear."

"I love you."


End file.
